


bring it all back to that bar downtown

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anticipation, Bars and Pubs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Feelings, Humor, Introspection, Kissing, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content, alternatively titled: a study in italics and run-ons, get it WITH EACH OTHER, get it sansa, get it theon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Theon’s been thinking about Sansa a lot. A lot a lot. Thinking all sorts of things, either half-arsed or too much, but either way he’s tired of thinking and just about ready to -do something- about it.So, he does.(title from “call you mine,” by the chainsmokers + bebe rexha)





	bring it all back to that bar downtown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSushiMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/gifts).



> for @thisbirdhadflown, who requested ‘over a beer bottle’ for the ILY prompts list on tumblr; and for @thesushimonster, because i think you’re neat and you deserve it!!!

The crowd at the pub on Pyke St. is just the same as always on a Friday night — everyone’s tired and tipsy and twenty-something. Blokes in caps and button-downs, birds in short skirts and slathered in lip gloss and sharply applied eyeliner. Nothing new, nothing exciting… except for maybe the possibly-leather shorts Sansa’s wearing, but those might only be particularly exciting to Theon.

Happy, artificial yellow lights wink from the open-beam ceiling, because it’s Yara’s place and she doesn’t want to give any of her regulars a pass for bad behavior just because the lights are low. She’d heard _‘sorry, didn’t see you there’_ from one too many handsy pricks.

The music’s almost too loud, but not quite. Theon wishes it were, if only because Arya’s pissing him off. Usually it’s his own sister doing the honors, but Yara’s too busy flirting with Margaery Tyrell at the other end of the bar to bother, or even notice that maybe Theon’s been paying such a significant amount of attention to Sansa’s legs that it’s worth pointing out.

“Stop looking at my sister’s arse,” Arya snaps, almost good-naturedly, but it really does rub her the wrong way when Sansa gets ogled.

Because ogling leads to unwanted advances leads to unwanted touching leads to a whole big _thing_ because the guy inevitably gets a black eye. Usually Arya, a few times Robb, once or twice Jon, and sometimes Bran will add insult to injury when he makes some cryptic remark about karma’s effect on unfortunate drops in sexual prowess and credit scores.

“I’m not looking at her arse,” Theon defends himself, because it’s fair enough, as Arya’s caught him just as his gaze moved further south. “I’m looking at her legs.”

He’s also imagining those forever-long-lightly-freckled legs wrapped around him, too. Specifically, satin-soft (because they _have_  to be, right?) thighs clamped around his ears. Never let it be said that Theon Greyjoy is not a gentleman in the bedroom. What’s the point, if the person you’re with doesn’t get off? His younger self had been markedly more stupid and selfish than that, yes, but he’s _learned_ , alright?

Granted, it had been Sansa who told him — in a drunken, uninhibited moment of sheer irritation with him — that he really ought to learn to use something other than his cock, because he couldn’t get by on his looks forever and men who don’t go down have terrible personalities.

Ygritte had found that uproariously funny, and Jon had been embarrassed. Much as Theon likes to take the piss, especially when it comes to Jon brooding bloody Snow, that time he’d been on the receiving end. It made Sansa even more incredibly attractive to him than she already was — and she _was_ , Theon had always been a little bit in love with her — and he’s scarcely been able to think of anything else but eating her out ever since.

Of course, he hasn’t told her that; he’s never told her any such thing, and she always thinks he’s teasing when he hits on her and he lets her believe that. He’s not going to push — he’s not one of those ogling, groping pricks. He’s given a second black eye to unnecessarily supplement Robb’s, and broken a couple of noses, too. He got his lip split open last time, and his knuckles bruised to hell, and a few more injuries that required more serious care than Sansa pressing an ice pack to his mouth or his hand and calling him an idiot.

But he’d preferred Sansa in close proximity infinitely more even than the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. Her long red hair had tickled his cheek and she’d smelled so good and he could practically taste the spearmint gum she’d been chewing, and no prescription pain meds could knock him off his arse quite like _that_.

He sort of thought she was going to kiss him then, two months ago on the curb outside the bar they’re in again tonight (because they’re always at this bar). But she hadn’t, and Theon hopes it was only his split lip stopping her.

What’s stopping _him_ is another question entirely, and one he doesn’t know how to answer. Maybe it’s his friendship with Robb, maybe it’s his own self-doubt and crippling anxiety, made less crippling by a regular regimen of Prozac, but all the same there’s no getting rid of that voice in the back of his mind — that sounds like Robb, sometimes, and others it’s his father or _her_ father — telling him that he’s not good enough for Sansa.

So, alright, maybe he does know the answer, but seeing as it’s _‘I fuckin’ suck,’_ truth be told Theon would have preferred ignorance.

Meanwhile, it seems that Arya would prefer to crack her bottle of imported Dornish beer over his thick skull. A waste of beer, Theon thinks, but otherwise he couldn’t blame her.

“Why don’t you go over there and just talk to Sansa?” she demands, perfectly reasonable and yet not at all. “You talk to her all the time. And I mean _all_. The time.”

“Wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he says, useless, as his eyes continue to track every one of Sansa’s movements. The cross of her legs, the tilt of her mouth when she smiles at something Loras or Renly says, the twirl of her fingers through the ends of her hair, the bob of her throat when she sips some sugary sweet confection through a bright paper straw.

Theon takes a bracing swig from his own bottle. “She looks like she’s having fun.”

“Not as much fun as she’d be having if you joined her,” Arya says, matter-of-fact. “She keeps looking at you, maybe if you took your eyes off her arse you would’ve noticed.”

At that, Theon’s gaze does flick back to her face to find that, yes, Sansa is looking at him. He can’t manage to play it smooth, the grin splits across his face before he can think to school it into something more calm, more cool. But then she smiles back, and he doesn’t mind so much that he looks like an overeager puppy who’s just got the barest scrap of attention.

But then, it’s no wonder; Sansa’s smiles mean the world to him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and takes another drink.

“Yup,” Arya agrees, and clinks her bottle against his.

She keeps chirping at his elbow, goading him into walking over and making a move on her sister — “And a real one this time,” Arya is careful to note the difference, “not like when you ask her if she’s a parking ticket or make wild propositions of marriage when she passes the salt at breakfast.”

Theon expects that she wants him to argue that. He can’t, really, because he’s absolutely done both of those things more than once.

In the time it takes for him to take another bracing swig — he’s going to need another drink if this keeps up — and for Arya to lift a thick, sardonic brow, Yara and Margaery have sidled over to join in on Theon’s humiliation.

“You look fucking miserable,” Yara notes, but she pops another beer for him so Theon takes the insult in exchange. Besides, he _knows_.

Margaery is a bit more kind — or patronizing, maybe, whatever — when she offers him a pout, as if that’s supposed to help. “What’s the trouble, bunny?”

There’s no sense in telling her to stop calling him that. He’s tried, which she thought was funny, and now he can’t remember the last time she’s called him by his name and frankly he suspects she doesn’t even remember what it is at this point.

So he settles for a scowl, and goes back to looking at Sansa because that usually makes him feel better. Only _usually_ , because sometimes he gets too up in his feelings and then he feels hopeless and pitiful and pathetic and so wistful that it makes his chest hurt.

He’s obvious, too ( _oh, well_ ), since Yara figures him out in an instant. She laughs, short and loud. “Oh, he’s pissed because he’s _mooning_ , is that it, little brother? Over the Stark girl. The fit one.”

“Oi!” Arya protests. She flexes to show off admittedly impressive arms. “Hello?”

“Huh. I wouldn’t fuck you, though,” Yara points out, even as she examines the muscles with an appreciative hand. “You look like something straight out of Studio Ghibli.”

“Tell that to Gendry.”

“Yeah, well, everyone’s got their kinks.” Yara smirks, and Theon has to join her. “Guess Gendry’s is _Kiki’s Delivery Service_ , eh?”

“Oh my god, that’s his favourite one.” Arya’s eyes go wide, before she slaps Yara’s hand and then the back of Theon’s head. “Quick, use your powers to figure out Sansa’s kinks and tell Theon so he quits his bitching.”

“Ouch,” he grumbles, rubbing his head. They all ignore him.

“That’s easy,” Margaery says. “Sansa likes a man who files his taxes early.”

“Well, god damn it,” Theon grumbles some more. He barely manages to file on time, forget about early. He’ll have to work on that, but until then… “What else?”

Yara whistles. “Look who’s finally getting ballsy.”

Theon shrugs. “You all already know, don’t you? Might as well get you to help me.”

“Please,” Margaery says, and all three of them collectively roll their eyes. “You know what to do. You don’t need our help, loathe as I am to admit that of any man.”

“Seconded,” Yara supplies.

Arya lifts her half-gone bottle, along with the fresh one she'd just snagged. “Hear, hear.”

“I _don’t_ know what to do,” Theon insists. “I just have this completely mad fucking crush on her that’s turned me into a fucking moron for something like years now, probably, if I had to — to _examine_ it, but no thanks, right, because I already know I’m an idiot for her so I don’t need to know the specifics. I just need to know how to make this _work_.”

His ears are burning red with the confession, but in truth Theon’s not shy about his feelings for Sansa. _Clearly._ He just doesn’t know what to do with them, and generally speaking he feels bad about having them at all — what with the anxiety issues, all that, et cetera, et cetera. And maybe he feels badly, too, because he has them and hasn’t done anything about them but wallow.

He’s grown rather tired of that. Weary, agitated, impatient. He’s scared but he wants to _try_.

So… Here he is, needling advice from her sister and his sister and the girl his sister’s fucking. There would be something surreal about it all, but he’s so used to them by now that he figures it — him and Sansa, so long as this actually works — was always supposed to happen this way.

“That,” Margaery says, pointing at him. “That’s what you do.”

“What?” Theon looks to Yara and Arya for help, for explanation, or at least for some camaraderie in his confusion. But no, they’re both nodding emphatically, like they understand what Margaery’s on about. “What is ‘that’?”

“What you just told us, dipshit,” Yara chips in.

“Unhelpful.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tell Sansa what you told us,” Arya interrupts before the Greyjoys can get caught up in another one of their fuck-you-no-fuck- _you_ back-and-forths. “It’s easy as that. You know how romantic she is, that shit’ll sweep her right off her feet so long as you mean it.”

She narrows her eyes at him then, so that they’re glittering dark and dangerous slits. “You do mean it, right? This isn’t just your way of trying to get into her pants?”

“No,” Theon swears. “Though, yeah, I want to get in her pants, too, but it’s not — that’s not _all_.”

He’s not sure if that makes him sound better or worse or if it makes a difference at all. But it’s honest, and he thinks that’s the most important part. He wants this thing with Sansa to be honest, through and through.

Maybe Arya understands what he means. She must, otherwise there’s no way in all seven hells she’d nod and tell him, “Alright. Best get on with it, then,” but that’s just what she does, precisely what she says. Theon still has no idea what he’s doing, but it’s out of his hands now, as Yara pushes a fresh-mixed drink into them — the same colorful thing Sansa’s been drinking all night, light on the ice because Yara doesn’t fancy cheating her customers out of their money with watered-down liquor.

Theon doesn’t begrudge her of that — their stingy father certainly would have, but fuck him — but this is a whole other stressor he hadn’t prepared for. He’d wanted their help, yes, but this is just… uncontestable peer pressure, and Theon’s never been any good at resisting anything if you tacked _‘Well, why the bloody hell don’t you just do it?’_ to the end of it.

He’s frozen to the spot, sugary sweet (but Sansa would be sweeter, surely) drink in hand, until Margaery gives him a shove and says, “Go on, then, bunny. _Hop_ to it.”

All three of them find this such an outrageous statement that their raucous laughter follows him all the way across the bar. It’s a good thing that they’re laughing at him over something so stupid; if he hadn’t a mission in mind Theon still would have left them to it, just to get away from them for the rest of the night.

Besides, getting away from them at this particular moment means getting closer to Sansa. And that’s everybody’s entire _point_ , isn’t it?

“‘Lo,” he greets her, sliding the drink her way and ignoring Loras and Renly’s wolf-whistles at his approach. Those two might be worse even than the three he’s just left. “Your mates are the absolute worst, so I thought I’d try to buy your undivided attention with whatever the hell this is.”

“All I know is that it’s pink and has got what should be an intolerable amount of rum,” Sansa tells him. She lets him think that _she_ thinks he actually bought the drink, when everybody knows he doesn’t pay a penny here. Nepotism, and all. “And yet somehow I’m tolerating it, whatever it is. I told Yara to surprise me.”

“That was a mistake.”

“Won’t be saying that when those shorts come off like they both want,” Renly hardly whispers to Loras, wicked grins on both of their finely-cut faces.

Sansa kicks him for it, which Theon only knows because of the telltale _thump!_ , Renly’s wince, and Loras’ laugh. None of them are all that subtle when they’ve been drinking. But, then again, who is?

He slips into the empty seat next to Sansa. Their knees touch, and neither of them bother to move. Theon’s always been this brazen, but he knows — from knowing her so long — that Sansa tends to play things more coy. It makes him fucking _giddy_ that such pretenses don’t exist between them. Because that’s a sign, isn’t it? The possibility is a lifeline that saves him from drowning in the anticipation, so Theon hangs onto it.

“What, nothing for us?” Loras teases, with that mischievous glint in his eye that must be a Tyrell family trait, encoded in their genetic makeup and everything. He clicks his tongue. “Such a wretched server you are.”

“Must disagree,” Sansa comes to his rescue before he can say something foolish, like he’ll wait on the lads’ every beck-and-call when they dye their hair red and look just as fit in faux-leather shorts. She takes a hearty pull from the rum charade, and tweaks him under the chin. “He’s just what I need.”

For that, Theon grins, and slips a hand over her bare knee under the table. She doesn’t move away from that, either, and this time the anticipation curls in his gut.

_What if what if what if…_

He’s tired of wondering, of wishing for things he’s made near-no effort to make true. He has his reservations, he knows that, he knows what they are down to the finest detail, however much he’d like to deny that. Because to deny it means he won’t have to face it.

But he’s going to have to face it, sooner or later, if he ever wants what he _knows_ he wants, to be real.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s gone and got all macabre about it. All philosophical, or as philosophical as he can tolerate, all sopping  _romantic_. He should go out and jump into oncoming traffic, for all the good he’s doing himself now. But then… Sansa does like romance, doesn’t she? He hadn’t needed Arya to tell him that, but he should remember it all the same.

Loras and Renly are still laughing at them. The girls likely are, too. It’s not so bad, though, Theon thinks, so long as Sansa lets him keep his hand on her thigh. His thumb strokes her skin, slow and rhythmic to match his breathing.

And maybe he’s just letting wishful thinking get the best of him, but Theon thinks, too, that she’s shifted closer since he sat down.

When he checks his watch (on the opposite hand, thank god, because like hell is he about to move the one on Sansa’s leg, not even half an inch), it’s been something like fifteen minutes. The time really got away from him, like most things when it comes to all his feelings tied up in Sansa Stark. It’s just… it’s a lot, alright? It’s no small wonder that fifteen minutes have gone by with barely a blink. Because he’s too scared to blink, really, for fear he’d miss something Sansa was trying to tell him with anything else other than words.

He’s overthinking this. Theon knows it, and it’s one of those things he knows that he’s not afraid to admit; at least _over_ thinking implies some sort of _thinking_ , which is about as much as he can hope for from himself.

It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Theon can do this.

He doesn’t know what ‘this’ is, not completely. But he can handle it.

Probably.

“I’m gonna head out for a smoke,” he announces, without thinking it over half as much as he’s thought over everything else. He looks to Sansa. “Wanna come?”

He could smoke inside, if he wanted. Anybody could. But that’s not what he wants — no, what he wants is to be alone with Sansa for a little while. He’s not self-possessed enough to admit that aloud with their friends sitting right there, but he hopes Sansa knows what he’s going for here.

She seems to. Maybe, or else she’s just being her usual polite self. Polite as far as her morals go, anyway, when she rolls her eyes with a hint of a smile. Even as she says, “It’s a terrible habit, Theon,” she’s hopping gracefully from her seat, and Theon gets a feel for the rest of her leg as she goes.

_Oh my fucking god._

“I know,” he says, as if he’s not having some sort of crisis over the perfect curve of her calf. He shoots her a grin, a mask of his old cocksure self before she came along and upended his whole world. “Come with me. Try to talk me out of it.”

“Talk him out of what?” Renly says, not any quieter than he’d been the last time, despite all the practiced effort to be so. “His pants? Please, Sansa could do that with about zero effort whatsoever.”

That’s fair, Theon admits, but he does so privately because he, at least, has some sense of self-respect (or extreme self-doubt, whatever). Sansa wouldn’t have to say a word and he’d take off his pants for her, if only he knew for sure it’s what she wanted. The trouble is, he can’t know that’s what she wants unless she _does_ say it.

It’s like some insidious emotional cycle of whether or not he should _do something_ about the way he feels about her. But now, tonight, Theon’s gone too far to come back from it.

Alright, so, he hasn’t done anything yet, but… If he asked his heart — the stupid, throbbing thing that it is whenever he so much as thinks about Sansa — it would say that it’s too late to go back, to get over it. He doesn’t even want to anymore.

So he presses his hand to her lower back to guide her through the crowd, and flips off Loras and Renly when they wolf-whistle again. Sansa rolls her eyes, still with that faint smile that spoils her put-upon air of exasperation. She doesn’t tend to admit it, lest anyone’s ego gets too inflated for their own good, but she thinks they’re funny.

Outside, it’s dark and balmy and blessedly quiet, with only the muffled sounds from the bar and the occasional car rumbling by to disrupt it. There are a few people up and down the cracked sidewalk, making their way to and from other pubs that are darker and pricier than Yara’s, because some people have poor taste.

There’s a streetlight on the curb. Sansa and Theon had sat under it two months ago, when she’d held the ice pack to his mouth and Officer Seaworth asked why their lot always insisted on getting into trouble. Theon had tilted his head towards Sansa in answer, and she, in turn, said it was because they were all gung-ho stupid.

She’d been right about that. Sansa’s always right.

She leans against the weathered brick of the pub, ankles crossed. Theon fumbles with his cigarette because he’s too busy watching her tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and he doesn’t have any real intention of smoking, anyway, because he’s thinking about kissing her and he doesn’t think she’d like it too much if his breath stinks.

He could kiss her elsewhere — he wants to, he plans on it if she wants him, too — but he’d very much like to start with her mouth.

Sansa eyes his cigarette, reads his mind, it seems, and asks, “You going to light that?”

“Ahm…” Theon’s lips turn up into that lopsided grin, the one that makes Sansa smile back at him no matter what, he’s noticed. “Thought you were supposed to be talking me out of it.”

Her shoes scuff against the pavement when she turns to face him more straight-on. Theon’s heart jumps up into his throat. He’s been closer to her than this, he’s touched her and held her and she’s done all of it right back to him, but this is different. This… means something, because they’re alone outside the pub and he’s deliberately not smoking, the cigarette remains unlit and twitching in between his fingers because he can’t keep still, he wants to touch her so badly, _really_ touch her.

It’s all catching up to him now, in a way that feels like it’s out of nowhere yet he thinks about it so much, all the damn time, that there’s no way he couldn’t have seen this coming.

Sansa cocks her head as she studies him, smiling still just a little — it’s always only just a little, unless you manage to catch her off-guard, like she’s afraid for anything to make her too happy. Like she doesn’t believe in too-good-to-be-true actually _being_ true, despite appearances.

But she’s too good to be true, if you ask Theon. And here she is, standing right in front of him, anyway.

“Now what could I say,” she wants to know, “that would stop Theon Greyjoy from doing whatever he likes?”

Well, isn’t _that_ a loaded question? Theon chuckles, and looks to the cigarette in his hand for answers. It doesn’t have any more than he does, but it’s easier to tell her things when he’s not looking at her, so —

“Come off it, you know I’d do anything you asked me to.”

There’s a beat of silence, that could break his heart or put it back together, it’s a toss-up, really, but then Sansa’s reaching out to trace the scar on his lip, and Theon’s heart’s about ready to burst free of his chest entirely.

“And several things I don’t ask you to, too,” she notes. Her touch is petal-soft, accompanied by the barest scrape of her sparkly sea-green thumbnail against his lip. It sends a veritable lightning bolt through his body, leaving him hot and sparking at the edges. “You could get yourself hurt. You _did_ get yourself hurt.”

“Old news.” Theon’s eyes flick back to hers, which are somehow soft and reprimanding and… something else, too, all at once. “I don’t mind a few bumps and bruises for you, Stark. You’re worth the trouble.”

Sansa’s smile goes a little wider, grows a little sardonic. “I think that’s meant to be a compliment.”

“Just like everything else I say to you.”

“You always were quite the charmer.”

Theon grimaces. It’s an involuntary sort of reaction, because he doesn’t like the person he used to be; he feels woefully out of his depth as it is, so not good-enough-for-her, and the person he used to be doesn’t help that.

“Sansa…” Her name is a quiet, huffed breath against the inside of her wrist. She’s still touching his scar. Theon drops the cigarette, useless thing, so he can wrap his hand around hers. “That’s not what I’m trying to do with you, you know?”

“Oh.” Something flickers in her eyes — disappointment? — and she tries to drop her hand, would have done if he weren’t holding onto it so tightly. “I didn’t mean to, ah, misread things, I suppose. I’m sorry.”

_Misread things?_

“No, you haven’t,” Theon is quick to assure her, because if she means what he thinks she means, then he needs to salvage this _now_. “I want that, I want… _you_ , but not just for what I think you’re thinking? If that makes sense? Only it doesn’t. Jesus.”

Sansa’s looking at him, a bit of a wrinkle between her eyebrows as she tries to figure him out. But Theon can’t even figure himself out at the moment, so he can’t imagine she’ll have much more luck. He’s babbling, incoherent and floundering and grasping for the right thing to tell her, the things her sister and his sister and the girl his sister’s fucking told him to say, in all its surreal nonsense, but he’s too wracked with the anxious curling of his insides, of his limbs, to get ahold of those things without mucking them all up.

Maybe saying them won’t cut it. He’s tried and he’s scrambled and he wants to _do something_ instead of just talk about it.

So, instead, Theon says only, “Oh, fuck it,” before he dips in to take Sansa’s surprised mouth with his.

Not too surprised, though, because her hand as if on instinct curls into his shirtfront and pulls him closer.

Her lips against his are sweet — so much sweeter than what she’d been drinking all night, just as Theon knew she’d be. That jolt, that spark, is still tingling in the tips of his toes and his fingers and now at the corners of his mouth, as he sinks into that shock of relief, of gratification and _at last_. As he sinks into _her_.

She tastes like sugar and coconut and summer afternoons at the beach. One hand twists into his shirt and settles over his heartbeat, hammering wildly and needfully for her, and the other twines around the ends of his hair that’s getting too long, the waves giving way to curls that wrap around Sansa’s fingers like they were made to do this.

Their mouths work up from a harried first press of lips-on-lips to a steady, luxurious exploration to something deeper, more urgent, like they need to dive in further and further and never, ever stop ‘til they reach the bottom, and there _is no_ bottom. It’s endless.

Theon wraps an arm around her waist, to haul her up against him, to hold her steady. She clings to him and he needs her, so much, he wants to pull her up tight and so close that they could crawl into each other’s bones, because she’s been etched into his for so long that he knows he has to get in hers, too.

He can’t bear to let go, not even when they break apart for shallow breaths. She doesn’t make any move to let go, either. She has him, completely, and Theon’s pretty sure he’s got her, too.

“I like you,” he says, throat dry, voice hoarse, lungs aching. “Proper like you. In case that was still in question.”

Sansa’s laugh is breathless, her smile too-good-to-be-true wide now. Her grip tightens in his hair as she promises, “Likewise.”

Things move rather quickly after that.

The mechanics of car sex are… interesting, at best, but the potential for injury is perhaps the most prevalent thing about it. Not that that’s going to stop Theon — or Sansa, for that matter, which is such a joyous discovery that he really can’t get her shorts off fast enough. A tricky task in the best of circumstances, as they’re bloody _painted on_ , made even more so when they’re squashed in the backseat of the same car Theon’s been driving since they were teenagers.

It smells like worn leather, cigarette smoke, and Sansa’s preferred spearmint gum because Theon stashes so much of it in his glove compartment, just in case, just for her, and it’s hot and cramped and the most wonderful thing in the world.

“I like these,” he tells her, short of breath all over again as they kiss everywhere they can reach, and he tugs at the stuck zipper of her shorts. “ _Believe me_ , I do, but — _ha!_ ” The shout comes quick and victorious when the zipper gives, and Sansa laughs. “Wear a skirt for me next time, love.”

“I’ve got enough of them,” she reminds him, as if he needs it.

“Oh, I _know_.” He hovers over her, leans in to suck on her neck, that spot behind her ear so she can hide the hickey if she wants to. “It drives me mad every time you wear one.”

That makes her laugh, too, and wrap her arms tighter around his neck.

His hand slides up her leg, around the curves, and he hitches it up over his hip so he can settle more comfortably between them. As comfortable as he can, in such close quarters. They’ll both be hurting tomorrow, but Theon won’t mind working out her kinks in all sorts of creative ways.

For now, though…

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, would-be conversationally if he weren’t sucking on her neck, and meeting the steady undulation of her hips with his own. “About what you said to me ages back, about how I should really go down on a girl when I fancy her.”

“Mhmm,” she replies, just to show she’s listening but he doesn’t think her focus is all in. Which suits him just as well, when he rolls his hips into hers and she gasps in that pretty way that makes his blood heat. Her nails bite into his shoulders. “I remember.”

Theon smirks, and he does that thing with his hips again right before he mumbles into her ear, “You sure about that?”

“Honestly?” Her chuckle is husky, strained. If he thought he was hard already, it’s nothing compared to what that laugh does to him. “I’m about to forget my own name.”

“I can help with that… _Sansa_ ,” he breathes into her ear, then sucks on the lobe. He groans when she gasps, when she tilts upwards so that he can feel how hot she is, how hot he’s made her. “Sansa, fuck —”

She slants her mouth to his, so that his words are just a muffled curse she swallows, kissing him like she’s desperate for it. And he’s desperate for her, too, to get her legs around his shoulders and her hands in his hair again, her body curling into his further and closer with every cresting wave of the release he wants to give to her.

He wants to give her _everything_.

He kisses his way down her body, yanking at her shorts as he goes so he can get them out of the way. He pauses to go back to what he was saying before she drove him wild, amd tells her, “Well, I fancy you, and I want to get my mouth on you to prove it.”

It’s not much for romance, but Sansa doesn’t appear to mind. She’s kicking out of her shorts, anyway, so he figures that’s as sure a sign as any.

The panties come easier, likely because Theon rips them in his haste, but she doesn’t mind that, either.

“Just as well.” He manages a grin, however hard it is for him to breathe in his earnest excitement to be going down on Sansa in the backseat of his car ( _god_ , but he’s easy when it comes to her). He pockets what’s left of violet cotton-and-lace. “I was gonna keep these, anyway.”

He’s still grinning when he heads in, mouth first, between her legs. Sansa’s laughter breaks off into a moan, and her hands go to his hair, which makes him moan, too.

His arms wrap ‘round her legs, fingers biting into her thighs as he holds her tight. He works his mouth against her, the strokes of his tongue vibrating with his appreciative groans, because fuck, she’d been right when she told him sex wasn’t worth anything if he couldn’t enjoy giving more than taking every once in awhile.

Now, Theon thinks he’d much prefer giving pretty much all the time, so long as the girl he’s giving it to is Sansa.

That’s probably what love is. The realization doesn't surprise him in the slightest.

Because he does love her — totally and wholeheartedly, no questions about it. He loves her little, hold-back smile, and he loves it when she lets it go with him. He loves how much better he is because of her, and how she never makes him feel less-than. He loves her compassion and her dry sense of humor and how much she tells the truth, but never in a way that hurts you.

He loves her.

And now he knows, too, that he loves the way she tastes — from her mouth to her neck to her cunt. He loves the way she clings to him, fingers tangled in his hair. He loves the tilt of her hips and the convulsive press of her thighs against his ears. He loves those breathy gasps of pleasure he’s pulling from her. He loves the way that she says his name.

He loves that he’s doing this _right_ , loves that she loves what he’s doing to her.

And, fuck, he _loves it_ when she comes.

The clench of her fingers, biting into his scalp. The way her muscles seize all around him. The fluttering of her lashes before her eyes squeeze shut tight, the bite of her teeth into her thoroughly-kissed lips. The rampant beating of her heart, the rapid pulse of her breath. The endless lyrical way she says his name.

He kisses her through the aftershocks, slow and deep and languid, wherever he can — the insides of her thighs, the curve of her hip, up and up, hands caressing her all the while, until he reaches her panting mouth, and picks up right where they started.

“That was…” For once, Sansa’s at a loss for words, but the way she’s looking at him says everything Theon needs to hear.

“I know.” He grins, and keeps on kissing her, because god damn, he never wants to stop.

They do, eventually, when Sansa’s phone won’t stop chirping with texts from the girls, all of them asking where they’ve gone and making lewd bets that are sure enough true, and they’re all having such a grand time in the group chat that Theon considers tossing the phone out the window before he remembers that it’s not his.

“Don’t sulk,” Sansa chides, but she’s smiling when she plucks another kiss from his lips. “You’ll be coming home with me tonight, anyway.”

He can’t argue with that; he doesn’t even consider it. He just helps her back into her shorts and that, for now, is that.

And it’s more than enough, because they’ve only just started.

When they head back into the pub, Theon ducks behind the bar to pop open a couple of beers, and he tells her what he’d been holding in for ages, what had just clicked, because he doesn’t want to hold back anything anymore.

So he says _I love you_ , right as she takes her first sip.

It gets spat out in surprise, but that’s alright. Theon will take the stained shirt, because Sansa tells him _I love you, too_ , even if she does call him an idiot first.

 

* * *

 

**THEON GREYJOY is In A Relationship with SANSA STARK**

_53 likes  
19 comments_

**ROBB STARK** : ???????????  
I work ONE night shift and come home to THIS??

 **THEON GREYJOY** : yup. and i went home with your sister.  
~swish~

 **SANSA STARK** : For god’s sake, Theon.

 **THEON GREYJOY** : :D

 **ROBB STARK** : the FUCK???

 **ARYA STARK** : keep your hair on robb  
we told them to

 **MARGAERY TYRELL** : It was for their own good.

 **YARA GREYJOY** : And ours, too. I was sick of Theon’s bitching.

 **THEON GREYJOY** : thanks

 **RENLY BARATHEON** : Told you he was gonna get into her pants.

 **ROBB STARK** : He got into WHAT NOW??

 **LORAS TYRELL** : Pants, Robb.  
Christ, aren’t you supposed to be smart?

 **THEON GREYJOY** : yeah and to be fair, i did just say that i went home with her  
what’d you think i meant? that she took me back to hers and we played parcheesi?  
nobody even likes parcheesi, robb  
like.  
what even is it?

 **SANSA STARK** : It’s exactly what we did at mine last night, THEON.

 **THEON GREYJOY** : oh all right, then, SANSA  
xx

 **THEON GREYJOY** : what we did in my car in the parking lot however, is still up for debate

 **SANSA STARK** : Oh my god.

 **ARYA STARK** : OI  
NICE

 **ROBB STARK** : BLOCKED


End file.
